


She saved me

by Masqueradewitch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:08:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masqueradewitch/pseuds/Masqueradewitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was twelve years old when the new maid and her daughter arrived at the estate.  With her haunted eyes and easy smile, she slipped into his mind palace and never left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this came from, but it wouldn't leave me alone. I thought that maybe posting it would ease my muse's screaming in my head.

She is nine years old when her mother arrives to work at the estate, all arms and legs and long skirts with those wide haunted green eyes. She never fails to offer a smile to anyone who crosses her path, and instantly charms the cook and half the house staff. Sherlock is twelve and far too involved in his own interests to notice the girl, but she notices him. In less than two days she has figured out all his little quirks, manages to bring a fresh cup of tea whenever he is working on an experiment, leaving it in just the right place so he will not knock it over with an elbow in excitement when he finds what he is searching for. She hides in the shadows when he is playing his violin, silent and swaying to the rhythm. It takes him six months before he finally speaks to her.

"You are not my maid,” he snaps one day when she sets a cup of fresh tea down. Those haunted green eyes meet his icy blue without fear and she smiles at him.

“None of the staff want to come near you when you’re working. I heard one of the servants say you were a devil,” she replies. Her accent is a surprise. The inflections are all on odd words, like she never settled on a single language as she grew up. He takes the time to actually look at her, trying out his talent at reading people. All he can read from her is curiosity and sadness.

“If you are not part of the staff you should not be doing their work,” he sniffs, and turns back to his work. Her smile turns wistful and she begins to hum a melody under her breath as she tidies his room. 

(Three days later, the maid in charge of his and Mycroft’s wing is dismissed for theft. Sherlock had grown tired of the woman’s sticky fingers anyways.)

He learns her name is Iona, and she has a love of poetry and the arts. When he goes out to collect samples she is right there with him, dancing along the forest paths and singing in a number of languages, the kinds of songs he has never heard before. Almost against his will, he finds he has grown fond of this slip of a girl, who listens as he speaks and is always ready with a smile, and seems to love nothing more than when she is walking at his side in the woods reciting passages from whatever book she is reading. He knows that some of the staff are whispering about it, about how he shouldn’t be behaving this way around her. Her mother simply shakes her head at the gossip and dismisses it out of hand. Iona knows about the gossip, but she never mentions it to Sherlock. She seems content.

Mycroft comes home from boarding school on a holiday and instantly notices the way Sherlock is different around Iona. He chides Sherlock for dallying with a maid. Sherlock nearly breaks his nose for the comment. Iona is already waiting in his room when he storms in with bloody knuckles. She calmly begins to clean the wounds as he stares at her.

“You aren’t embarrassed by his comments,” he notes, and it’s true, she isn't. Her haunted eyes are less so, and she does not look embarrassed or shamed for his brother’s insinuations. She shrugs, lightly applying a balm to his knuckles.

“I know that your fondness for me is in no way romantic. At times you treat me as an annoying younger sister. It’s…nice. When I was younger, before Mother and I came here, it would have been nice to have an older brother. Someone to protect me, when I couldn't protect myself. Or defend my honor,” her tone is hesitant at first, rising to playful tones at the end as she releases his hand. As she leaves his room on silent feet, Sherlock muses over her words and finds that it is an apt description for the odd sentiment he has allowed himself in regards to her.

As the years pass, Sherlock’s only constant is Iona. She has insinuated herself into his life effortlessly, and seems to understand the way his mind works, even if she cannot follow it most days. When he is bored, he takes to following her as she goes about her duties. She and her mother seem to live very modestly, despite the comfortable income provided to the Holmes staff. Late at night, she will sit in his rooms with a basket of sewing and listen to him lecture, or play the violin. Other times he will lay on his bed while she recites poetry, or sings over her stitching. It is a comfort, and one he knows he will be unable to indulge in for much longer.

He is seventeen and she is fourteen, still growing into herself, but still with the same wide green eyes and easy smile. He is stretched out on the sofa before his fireplace, his head in her lap as she absently strokes her fingers through his curls.

“’Teller, teller, tell me a tale, of love and fear and duty. I want to die in the arms of love, I want to die for beauty. For if beauty is the only truth, and truth the only lie, I want to sing a final tale, and love before I die.’ Even after all this time that is still my favorite quote.” Her voice is whisper quiet, but he can still make out the words. The gossip petered out years ago, when their behavior toward each other never changed.

(Days after punching Mycroft, he and Iona were called into his mother’s office. It was the work of less than five minutes to convince her there was nothing improper about their relationship. Violet Holmes had smiled that small little smile and dismissed Sherlock and his ‘protégé’)

“Sentiment. Is that what you truly want out of life? A lovesick fool who will promise you the stars?” he scoffs. The fingers in his hair pause, ever so briefly in their path. He notices the pause, he notices almost everything now. It is so very difficult to quiet his mind now, but times like this with Iona, are the closest he has ever come.

“I somehow doubt that any man who wishes to court me will meet with your approval,” her tone is falsely light and teasing, and Sherlock opens his eyes to look up at her. Her long auburn hair is pushed back from her face by a wide headband of black velvet(a gift from him three years ago) and her eyes are sad.

“Why would he need my approval?” he asks, truly perplexed. She smiles down at him, but it is not one of her usual smiles. This smile is one she has been giving to her mother recently. She knows the older woman is ill, has been for some time. Iona has been taking as many of her mother’s duties as she can get away with, to help her hide her condition.

“My father is long dead. My mother will not live to see me marry. The only person left to give approval is you, the older brother I always wanted,” she calmly explains. Sherlock pulls himself upright, feeling an odd sinking feeling in his gut, and a strange pain in his chest.

“When you find the man willing to give you those stars, I will approve,” he says, pulling her into a rare embrace and laying a tender kiss on her forehead.

(Her mother passes away in her sleep that night. Iona does not weep, at least, not where anyone can see.)

Sherlock returns from university on holiday, irritable and anxious. There is a strange maid in the hall near his rooms. He looks her over and storms into his brother’s study.

“Where is she?” he snarls. Mycroft barely spares his brother a glance. Upon their father’s death four years before, Mycroft had slowly begun to take over the management of the estate for their mother.

“Iona is barely fifteen years old. She was provided with a very comfortable placement at a very good girl’s school,” he explains evenly. Sherlock glares at his brother, the anxiousness increasing.

“It’s Christmas hols. Why isn't she here?” he demands. The look Mycroft gives him speaks volumes. Iona wasn't just sent away to school, she was dismissed. The revelation is like a punch to the gut, but Sherlock has become very good at hiding his emotions. He straightens his coat and sneers down at his brother.

“I see you’ve been cheating on your diet again. What would Mummy say? I’ll be returning to London, no need to have my things unpacked,” he says shortly, turning on his heel and striding away.

“Must you be so childish, Sherlock? It isn’t like you were in love with her,” Mycroft’s tone is long-suffering, as if this is a long standing debate between them. Sherlock spins around and slams his palms down on his brother’s desk. He feels a smug sense of satisfaction when Mycroft jumps in his seat.

“I have let many of the times you have interfered in my life go Mycroft, but this is one thing that I will never forgive,” he hisses, allowing every ounce of loathing he feels for his brother shine through his icy eyes. He then storms out of the office, intent on returning to the university, frantically trying to calm his rushing mind, something that has eluded him since he left in the first place.

(One of the other students still in the dorms offers him a line of cocaine when he returns. Being high quiets his mind, but not for long. Never for long.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little bit of an interlude concerning Sherlock's interactions around Molly

_That was not what you should have said_. Iona’s voice echoes through his mind as he walks out of the morgue, leaving Molly Hooper standing by the body he had just thrashed with a riding crop. He knew that she had been asking him out, but played obtuse deliberately. _Unnecessary sentiment_. He enters the lab and sits at his favorite microscope. He can imagine Iona rolling her eyes, emerald skirts swirling around her legs as she walks away. She is always walking away from him. Over a decade and he has seen no sign of her anywhere in England. Later, when he is meeting with John Watson, the army doctor looking for a flatmate and Molly comes in with his coffee, he heeds Iona’s voice in his mind and tries to compliment her. He is woefully out of practice and he can hear Iona grumbling at his attempt.

*

He watches Molly storm out of the lab, trying vainly to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut as she leaves. He had simply been trying to spare her the pain of finding out on her own that her latest romantic interest was gay. That was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? And how dare the little git try to slip him a phone number right in front of the woman he is supposedly dating.

_You were jealous though, when he put his arm around her. You never did like it when someone tried to take your things away._ Iona’s voice flits through his mind with the sinking feeling in his gut. He huffs softly and ignores the connection. Later, when he and John are standing by the pool and Molly’s latest ex has revealed his true colors, Sherlock begrudgingly admits to himself, in the deepest corner of his mind, Iona’s voice might have been right.

*

_Damn you Sherlock Holmes, fix this now! How dare you make her cry in front of all your friends!_ Sherlock had only ever heard Iona’s voice raised in anger once, but he had never forgotten it. A local boy had been in the woods and called him names. It had driven the normally soft spoken Iona into a rage and she had yelled right in his face before beating the bully to within an inch of his life. Sherlock had simply looked on in shock before she returned to his side. Now those same angered tones were shouting in his mind as Molly fought to hold in the tears brought on by his cruel and careless deduction of her affections and the gift now in his hand. His conscience had long since taken on John’s voice, but his buried emotional side had always been Iona.

“I am sorry. Forgive me,” he admitted, humbled and ashamed of his own actions. He stepped closer to the pathologist and leaned closer. “Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper,” he whispered, placing a brief kiss to her cheek before his courage could fail him. Then that damned moan erupted from his jacket and everything went to hell.

*

“You see me.”

“I don’t count.” Sherlock looked at her properly; in shock at the calm, matter of fact way she said those three horrible words to him. How could she possibly think that? And now she was offering him everything, anything she could give and for a moment, he was stumped.

“What could I possibly need from you?” he asked, and this time he could practically see Iona dropping her head into her hands, groaning at the comment. Molly was shaking her head, talking about food, asking him if he was hungry and dismissing the possibility in the same breath. She knew him so very well, how could she not realize how important she was to him?

_How are you going to fix this?_ In his mind palace, he could see Iona sitting on the sofa, watching him passively. But for the life of him, he could not think of a solution. Hours later, on the run from the police and finally admitting to himself that this might be the one fight he can’t win, he realizes exactly how to fix this. It’s so very simple. There’s always something he misses.

_You’ve always counted and I’ve always trusted you._

_What do you need?_

_You._


	3. Chapter 3

He slowly becomes aware of gentle fingers threading through his hair, stirring hidden away memories in his mind palace.

_Iona_

                “Sherlock?” a hesitant voice asks.  He cracks open his eyes slowly to meet the worried brown gaze of Molly Hooper.  He inhales sharply, moving to sit up, but her grip on his shoulder holds him in place.  “Don’t try to get up.  You are still a bit banged up, so you shouldn’t try to move right now.  I was just getting the blood out of your hair,” she explains gently, her lower lip between her teeth.  He realizes he spoke the name aloud.  Molly is curious now, but she won’t ask.  She never asks anything of him, simply gives and gives.  In that way she is so very much like Iona it makes his chest ache.

(He once told Iona that he did not bother with feeling for others, it was too bothersome.  She had laughed lightly and retorted that the truth was that he did feel, so very strongly for those he deemed worthy it hurt sometimes.  When he scoffed she gently reminded him of the day he punched his brother.  He never denied his emotions to her again.)

Molly begins to pull her hands away from his head, but one of his hands grasp her wrist, stilling her movements.  “It’s alright.  It helps actually.  I had a…friend who would do this for me.  It was the only time my mind ever calmed.  Then I went to university and when I came back, she was gone.  I have been chasing that sense of peace ever since,” he slowly reveals.  He is not sure why the words fall from his lips, why the memories of his time with Iona are spilling from the carefully locked up room in his mind palace, (He never deleted them, no matter how painful it was to still have them, he still remembers everything about the little sister he wished she could have been) but revealing this part of himself to Molly felt right somehow.  Hesitantly, Molly’s fingers sink into his hair once more, slowly working through the tangles and gently smoothing the tacky blood out.

“Everything went just as planned, well, everything but one detail.  I didn’t have to use that decoy body we had picked out.  It seems that Jim did one good deed in his life,” she whispers, and there is a sharp tone of righteous anger at mentioning the psychopath’s name.  It is only now that Sherlock realizes he is not lying on a cold slab in the Bart’s morgue, but a rather comfortable mattress in a fair sized room painted a soothing blue.  Part of him wants to get up and look around to see what he can deduce about Molly from her flat, but her fingers are still running through his hair, and he will not stop her movements for anything in the world.  It is a staggering thought, that he has known Molly all this time; that his sanctuary was so close and he had never realized it.  A blush rises on Molly’s cheeks and he realizes he spoke the last thought aloud.  The drugs they used to slow his heart rate and breathing are reacting with what was used to wake him back up and muddling his head.  It is perhaps the only chance to speak honestly and uninhibited to this incredible, loyal, _wonderful_ woman and he grasps it with both hands.

“How is it possible that you could ever love an insufferable arse like me?  I spend most of my time saying such awful things about your clothes or your hair or your attempts at relationships, and yet you still help me.  You always get me coffee, help me with my experiments, cater to my every whim.  You are the only one who really sees me, the only one since Iona.  In some ways you remind me of her, a tiny slip of a girl with sad eyes and a ready smile for anybody.  You both see right through me.  But where she saw me as a protector, a big brother, you love me.  What did I do to deserve such a thing?” he rambles, gazing up at her in frank wonder.  Molly’s mouth is hanging open slightly in shock at his words.  To his dismay, her eyes dim, the lovely chocolate brown deadening to a plain dull mud as she shakes her head.

“You’re having a strange reaction to the drugs we gave you.  Try and get some rest, and you’ll be back to yourself in the morning,” she gives him a small smile as she speaks and something in Sherlock twists at the sight of that smile.  It is the same one Iona gave him the night her mother died, the night she admitted her doubt of ever finding love.  Sherlock pushes through the haze of pain and drugs to sit up and capture Molly’s face in his hands.

“The first time you had a date after we met you were wearing green silk.  I told you the man was cheating on his wife and you believed me.  You barely knew me then but you still believed in my deductions.  That was the moment when I knew that I would always be able to trust you, irrevocably.  It is true that I would likely never say these things were I not experiencing an unexpected reaction to the drugs you gave me to save my life, but never doubt that what I tell you is the truth Molly Hooper.  You are my salvation.”  He knows from the shifting emotions on Molly’s face that his own countenance is open, displaying his own feelings clearly for the first time in so very long.  Molly shifts onto the bed, gently pushing Sherlock’s head into her lap where she continues to gently thread her fingers through his hair.  He closes his eyes at the sensation and pushes aside all his worries about tracking down Moriarty’s web, about how John will handle life without him.  For at least a few moments, he will have his cherished sanctuary.

                “Will you tell me about her?  About Iona?” Molly asks softly, her fingers never ceasing in their journey through his curls.  A memory flashes across his mind, Iona dancing through the woods at his side, a dark wool cloak swirling about her as she danced through the foliage.

                “I first met her when I was twelve years old.  Her mother was a maid at our family estate.  She was a tiny slip of a girl, with dark hair and green eyes.  It took her less than three days to figure out my little quirks.  She became the only person I could stand to have around me.  Mycroft insinuated I was engaged in some sort of carnal affair with her.  It was the first time I punched him.  Iona was waiting for me when I returned to my rooms.  She knew already about our fight.  She saw me as an older brother.  When she told me that, I realized that it was the same as my own.  Mummy called her my protégé, but she was never one for deductions and reasoning.  Iona loved literature, art, and music.  She loved to listen to me play the violin, sometimes she would sing along with me, or recite poetry while running her fingers through my hair to help calm my frantic mind.  Her mother died when Iona was fourteen, but Mummy allowed her to stay at the estate.  I went away to uni and when I came home for the first holiday, she was gone.  Mycroft had dismissed her and sent her away to some girl’s school, like she was some sort of embarrassing secret to be put out of sight.  I went back to school and tried cocaine for the first time.  I have never forgiven Mycroft for that.”  The words spill from his lips readily.  It has been far too long since he has had someone he could tell about Iona, the center of his younger years.  Molly’s fingers have stilled in his hair, and she looks down at him with pain in her eyes.

                “You never tried looking for her?” she asks, and he shakes his head slightly in the negative.

                “At first, I was so lost in the drugs that I didn’t even think about her.  After rehab, I locked away any part of myself that might be a weakness.  I thought about it, from time to time, after I met John.  He…brings out my human side, no matter how much I might resist.  But then, there was Moriarty and the bombs…” he trails off, his sluggish mind suddenly jumping to awareness.  Moriarty.  Carl Powers.  _Iona._ He surges upright, making Molly yelp and his battered body protest.

                “Sherlock, lay down!  You’re still badly hurt!” Molly cries, her tiny hands grasping his shoulders.

                “Mycroft told Moriarty my life story.  Moriarty killed Carl Powers when I was a teen.  _Iona_ was with me when I first found out about the Carl Powers case!” he snaps, struggling to his feet.  The small hands force him back onto the mattress with surprising strength.

                “Sherlock, you have to breathe!  That bastard would have dangled Iona before your nose long before this, wouldn’t he?  He would have put her in one of those bombs if he had found her.  Wherever she is, I doubt he knew, and maybe, he thought she was like me, she didn’t count.  I know you said I do, but he didn’t think so.  Even when he asked me out, it was just a cat’s paw, a way to get close to you, not to hurt you, but get close enough to touch.  Iona has been out of your life for so long, he probably dismissed her out of hand.  Relax,” Molly sooths, her fingers gently stroking his face.  There is fear in his eyes, and on impulse, she draws him into her arms, holding him.

                “What if you’re wrong?” he whispers in her ear, and she holds him tighter.

                “Jim-Moriarty never saw people.  He saw chess pieces in the game between you and him.  In his mind, John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade were the important pieces on your side.  They were the knights, the bishops, the rooks.  I was a pawn sacrificed early in the game.  He wouldn’t see Iona as even worthy of the board,” she whispers back, certainty in her tone.  Privately, she prays that she is right.

(She knows she will never forgive herself if she is wrong, if Moriarty saw Iona where he missed Molly.)

Two days later, Sherlock Holmes has been buried and Mycroft is at Molly’s flat to fetch his brother.  Sherlock has changed drastically in those days.  His hair has been dyed and cut shorter, he wears ratty jeans and a t-shirt, his trademark jacket and scarf are gone, hidden away in Molly’s closet.  The brothers are staring at each other across the coffee table while Molly sits in a chair with her hands folded on her lap.  Mycroft rises to his feet, offering a tiny, polite smile to Molly.

                “Thank you for assisting my brother, Miss Hooper,” he says.

                “ _Doctor_ Hooper,” Sherlock corrects, balefully glaring at his brother.  Mycroft nods slightly at the comment.  Molly smiles thinly.

                “Of course.  And sorry about the…no, actually, I’m not sorry about the slap,” she replies, lifting her head and meeting the elder Holmes’ eyes.  Sherlock looks between the pair, his eyebrows lifted slightly in interest.

                “It was deserved, Doctor.  Shall we, brother?” Mycroft gestures to the door.  Sherlock stands up.  Molly is a second behind him, still twisting her fingers together.

                “Be careful Sherlock.  ‘If it must be done, let it be done quickly.’  It’s probably not the best thing to quote Macbeth of all things, but…” she trails off as Sherlock wraps his arms around her, his nose buried in her hair.

                “I will come back to you Molly.  I promise you, I will come home,” he whispers against her ear.  His lips drag across her cheek, meet hers briefly before they part.  Bowing his head, Sherlock walks out of Molly’s flat and down to the car waiting to take him to the airport.  Mycroft watches his brother the entire way, never saying a word.  At the jet, he finally reaches out a hand.

                “I have never apologized in my life brother, but I am sorry for my part in this,” he says.  Sherlock turns back to his brother.

                “Did you tell him about Iona?  Did you even mention her to him at all when you told him about me?” he demands.  Mycroft’s face twists slightly before he can mask it.

                “I never mentioned her.  Why would he care about the maid’s daughter?” Mycroft asks coolly.  He makes a subtle gesture with his hand, and the divider darkens slightly.  “She is safe Sherlock.  He never knew about her, and I intend to have her brought to London to keep her safe until your return,” he explains.  Sherlock lets out a sharp breath, and tentatively reaches out to grasp his brother’s hand.

                “Thank you, Mycroft,” he murmurs.  Death, it seemed, had brought out the humanity in the consulting detective.  Mycroft smiles fondly at his brother.

                “It is what you do for family.  Good luck Sherlock,” he says.

One week later, John Watson receives a call from Mrs. Hudson.  She has a new tenant for the basement flat, but she still wants John to come home.  He returns to Baker Street, intending it only to be a short visit.  Mrs. Hudson is sitting in her kitchen with a woman a few years younger than John with dark hair and green eyes.  She wears long skirts and a white shirt under a blood red corset style bodice.  A velvet headband holds her hair back from her face.  Her smile is soft and sad as she holds out her hand.

                “Hello.  I’m Iona Marquette,” she introduces herself, and John shakes her hand, meeting her eyes and thinking how he can see Sherlock in her eyes, the angles of her features.  He suppresses the thought, telling himself it is simply the grief talking, and settles down to have tea with the two women.  He had only intended a visit to Baker Street.  He ends up staying.


	4. Chapter 4

Life falls into a routine with surprising ease after John returns to Baker Street.  On days when he has to go to the clinic she is up beofre him, making tea and breakfast.  She tidies the flat with a graceful effiancy he didn't know existed.  Within the first week, all the experiments are properly disposed of, and Iona meets Molly Hooper.  John smiles warmly at the normally timid pathologist, remembering the way she had marched up to Mycroft Holmes and slapped him right across the face while John had simply held Mrs. Hudson.  Iona stares at Molly for all of ten seconds and proceeds to wrap her arms around the other woman.  Molly is practically shaking as Iona whispers in her ear.  John is concerned and moves forward to offer his own comfort, but then Molly is smiling at the new woman and they are sitting down to tea, leaving the doctor a little puzzled.  It is only after Molly leaves later that evening that Iona explains.

"I knew Sherlock Holmes when we were children.  I was one of a very few number of people who could see through his brusque exterior, to know the real him.  It is quite clear that Molly loved him, utterly and completely.  I simply thanked her for being there for Sherlock when I was unable.  I owe you the same thanks, John, for being a friend to him.  It takes a rare kind of person to be a friend to Sherlock Holmes," she says, her huanted green eyes shimmering with barely restrained tears.  John can feel his throat closing up, and simply reaches out to grip her hand, both grieving for the man they had called friend.

*

If it weren't for Iona's constant presence in the flat, John is sure he would have slipped back into the depression he had endured shortly after returning to London from Afghanistan.  She seems to always be there, cleaing the dust from the bookshelves, singing softly as she folds laundry, cooking meals that he has surprisingly little trouble eating.  Iona does not mind cooking traditional English fare, but she also has enough skill to cook exotic foods from all corners of the world, ready to accept any sort of challenge set before her.  Once or twice Mrs. Hudson tries to dissuade her from cleaning John's flat, but Iona simply gives her a smile and a light kiss on the cheek, continuing with her cleaning as if the older woman never said a word.  From time to time, John will accompany Iona to the market, watching as her skirts sway around her.  She almost never wears pants, preferring the loose skirts she had worn when they first met.  Her long hair is always loose around her face, only held back by the velvet headband(a gift form Sherlock, he has learned).  She always has something to offer the homeless on the streets around Baker Street.  Sherlock's homeless network is loyal to the detective and his blogger, even after his death.  Any reporter that tries to reach Baker Street runs into foul luck, and even the cabbies seem to be in on the conspiracy.  John knows that something happened in Iona's past, something she never mentions.  It is clear in the way she moves on the open street, her clear awareness of her surroundings, body tensed for action.  He has seen this behavior in soldiers, in men, women, and children that have grown up in war zones.  It is why he can't blame her for her reaction when they are blindsided by Kitty Riley on a street not far from the market.

The detestable reporter had come up in John's blind spot, recorder in hand.  She had shoved the device in front of Iona when the lithe woman _flowed_ into action, the recorder falling to the ground in pieces and the red haired bitch pressed against the brick wall with a split lip and Iona's fingers around her throat.  She had moved so swiftly John had failed to even see what she had done.  Those wide green eyes were now burning with fury as she glared at the reporter.

"How dare you-" Kitty tries to shriek, but Iona applies just a little more pressure on her throat, silencing her.

"You should know better than to sneak up on someone.  Didn't your mother teach you any manners?" Iona hisses.  Kitty's eyes narrow, and she sneers over Iona's shoulder at John.

"So now you need your girlfriend to fight your battles for you?" she croaks.  John cracks a flat smile as He watches the muscles in Iona's shoulders tense.

"What battle?  You're the ignorant twat that tried to shove a recorder in her face.  I'm surprised any respectable paper would offer you a job, considering the fact you fucked a psycopathic criminal and wrote every lie he told you.  And don't even try to say you did any sort of fact-check.  We both know it's a lie," he replies calmly.  Iona shoves Kitty's head back against the bricks and snarls something in French before she steps back adn accepts the arm John offers her.  The pair walk away like a pair of the  _ton_ , heads held high for a few blocks in silence.

"She wasn't working for any respectable paper John.  I doubt even a tabloid would hire her after what came to light about her," Iona remarks as they near the market.

John frowns in confusions at the comment.  "What came to light?"

"Exactly what you said.  She slept with the psycopath and didn't bother to fact-check.  She is simply desperate to get some sort of scoop to try and revive her career," she replies with a smug smile on her face.  It is a painful reminder of Sherlock, the way she looks so very like him when she is smug.  John follows her into the market, wondering how she could know about Kitty Riley's reputation when he had not heard anything.

*

Seven months after Iona moves into Baker Street, John comes home a little early from work.  He can hear voices upstairs, in the kitchen of his flat.  One is familiar, but rare in Baker street.  Mycroft Holmes.

"I do not understand why you insist on continuing to behave this way Iona.  It is quite beneath you," the elder Holmes speaks with clear dissapproval in his tone.

"How exactly, is this below me Mycroft?  Or have you forgotten that I was cleaning up after your brother before I was ten years old?" Iona's voice is sharp and glacial with anger, and John pauses on the stairs to listen.

"You know precisely what I mean, my dear girl.  Why you insisted on leaving the education I arranged for you-" Mycroft is cut off by the sharp sound of something slamming down on the counter.

"Did it ever occur to you that your father had a damned good reason to bring his mistress and her child into your home?  Did you ever stop to think that Madame Holmes  _knew_ of our situation?  No, you simply shipped me off to some school on the Continent as soon as Sherlock was tucked away safely at University.  It wouldn't do for the family scandel to continue to live at the estate, to work with the servents.  Were you not curious as to why you couldn't find me for nearly seven years?  You never wondered why I used so many different aliases?  You may have asked me to come to London Mycroft Holmes, but do not think for one second that I obeyed your commands.  I came here for Sherlock's sake, not yours."  Iona's voice does not rise, but her anger is palabale.  When Mycroft finally responds, his voice is uneven, and John is certain that if he could see Mycroft's face, it would be ashen.

"Will you tell me what happened Iona?"  the question is almost too quiet for John to here, and he swiftly climbs the stairs and enters his flat.  Mycroft is gripping his umbrella so tightly John almost fears it may splinter in his grip.  Iona is in a very loose t-shirt and a pair of leggings, and her firngers are curled tightly into a fist.  John lets his eyes sweep over the tableau for a brief moment, and then he settles on glaring at Mycroft.

"What do you want?" he asks flatly, shifting ever so slightly between the two.  Mycroft's features smooth out rapidly, and he is once more the Ice Man.

"I was simply checking in on Iona, making sure she is settled," the elder Holmes replies.  John's eyes narrow.

"Obviously.  Now, if you'd be so kind;  _sod off_."  John's tone is nearly as arctic as Iona's had been earlier.  Mycroft nods stiffly at the doctor, recognizing he is on shaky ground with the man, and leaves the apartment.  The moment he is gone, John turns his attention on the woman at the stove.

"I thought you had another hour on your shift," she comments, her fingers slowly uncurling.  John takes a slow step closer and hesitantly reaches out to take her hands in his, letting her see his every movement and giving her the chance to move away.

"Are you okay?" he asks, watching her face carefully.  She sucks in a shaky breath and looks up at him.

"I will be.  Thank you John, but there is no need to piss him off on my account," she confides.  He shakes his head and slowly draws her into his arms.

"Why didn't you tell me Sherlock's your brother?" he asks instead.  Iona's entire body trembles against him, her grief finally emerging.

"Because he never knew."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my muse decided it would be funny to throw a curve ball at me. Would anybody be willing to read a story where Iona didn't get sent away by Mycroft, and when John meets Sherlock he also meets Iona? I have a few tendrils of an idea in my head, but I think it might be early enough I can beat them away if there isn't any interest.
> 
> Also, a warning to Mary/John shippers out there, Mary will not be in this story, at least, it doesn't look like she will. I am reserving my judgement of Mary until I get to see her portrayal in Series 3, but I am feeling quite optimistic. It's just that for this story, I have other plans that may work and may fall apart. Don't hate me!

It is said that grief can affect the passage of time.  Days can seem to drag on for ages, and suddenly months are gone in the blink of an eye.  One day John is shaking off the rain from his dash into the front hall of 221 when it suddenly occurs to him it is almost three years to the day that Sherlock Holmes died before his eyes.  Before the melencholy thought can take hold, the scent of fresh bread and jam wafts down ffrom the stairs.  Iona has been his saving grace in those three years, keeping him from falling into the massive abyss of depression that had threatened when his best friend died.  John had focused his attention on his work as a doctor, while Iona cared for the falt, Mrs. Hudson, and the good doctor.  For work, Iona's chosen carrer was as a freelance photographer.  It was sporadic but decent work, and was enough to cover her expenses.  John climbs the stairs to his comfortable flat to find Iona standing by the window, Sherlock's violin clutched lightly in her hands.  John curses himself for forgetting that he may have lost his friend, but Iona lost a brother.  He movs forward and gently wraps his arms around her shoulders.  It is the best way to approach her when she is in one of her darker moods, a simple gesture to show he is there.  The violin lowers and her head leans back against his chest.

        "Three years.  Do you think it will ever stop hurting?" she asks softly.  John lets out a soft breath.

        "No.  We loved the git too much for it to ever stop.  But, the more time passes, the easier it is to remember the better memories, to smile at some of the things he did," he replies.  The pair continue to stare out the window into the downpour that has been soaking London for days.

        "I keep seeing him, you know.  On the street, sitting in a cafee with a newspaper, hunched in a group of workers near the tube. Then I blink and it isn't him, just someone that caguely looks like him.  Am I going mad?" she asks.  John shakes his head.

        "Not at all.  I see him sometimes too.  The first few times, I thought I might be goign 'round the bend.  Then I figured out that I was imagining him there.  Part of you wants him to still be alive so badly your mind grabs at the slightest familiarity and slips his face in.  Your eyes are sort of the same, you know?  When I first met you, all I could see was Sherlock in your eyes, and the angles in your face.  Told myself it was the grief talking," he sighs.  Iona turns in his arms, looking up into his eyes steadily.  Where Sherlock's eyes were always shifting in color depnding on what he wore, Iona's are always green, with little golden starbursts she inherited from her mother.  In moments like this, when Iona is so close, John never sees his dead friend in her features, he simply sees Iona gazing up at him with a strange, sad little smile.

       "I'm sorry John.  I didn't mean to be so melencholy.  I suppose the rain brings it out in me," she whispers.  Her hands are now resting on his chest, and damn if his heart isn't racing a little at her touch.  His own hands slide down her back, drawing her closer.  He has been dancing around his attraction to her since they met, but in three years, he has never seen her go on a date or even flirt with anyone who flirted at her.  He feels a shiver run down her spine at his touch and leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of her jaw.  Her breath releases in a shaky gasp, and she turns to catch his lips with hers.  They spend a few heated moments locked up together like that before she breaks away, trmebling in his arms.

      "What's wrong?" he asks, concern cooling his desire slightly.  Iona pulls away gently, folding her arms around herself.

      "You don't want to do this John.  Not with me.  I'm too broken," she whispers bitterly, turning toward the window once more.  John reaches out slowly, and lets one hand rest on her shoulder.

      "You are not broken Iona.  I won't pretend to know what happened to you after Mycroft sent you away, but I know you are not broken.  Hell, you're stonger than me.  When Sherlock died, I felt like a part of me died too.  Before I met him, I was invalided home from Afghanistan.  I wasn't eating, didn't go anywhere.  I was a ghost wandering London.  And then a friend of mine introduced me to Sherlock.  In less than twenty-four hours I felt more alive than I had since I got home.  I started eating again, my limp went away, I was _living_.  Then everything went to hell, and Sherlock was dead, and I was right back where I started.  When Mrs. Hudson called me that day I was only planning to visit.  I stayed because of you.  You slipped into my life and kept me from fading away.  You were the only good thing that happened to me after Sherlock died.  You give me the strength to get up and face each day," his voice is even, but the truth of his words is clear in the way he speaks.  Iona turns slowly from the window to face him.

     "My mother's family were con artists.  Her parents died when she was little, so it was just her and her uncle.  He taught her everything he knew.  As soon as she was old enough, he sent her out to swindle rich men out of their money.  She was good at it too.  And then she met Richard Holmes.  He was married, but that had never stopped her before.  He saw through her deception, but played along with her for some time.  I don't think they fell in love, but they were friends of a sort.  Then one day he went home to London and my mother thought that was the end of it.  Until she found out she was pregnant with me.  Her uncle was already planning how to exploit me well before I was born.  My earliest memories were of my uncle trying to teach me how to con people, and pick pockets.  Maman taught me lanbguages, and how to sing, and poetry.  Then, when I was nine, Uncle told Maman that a gypsy man he owed money to wanted me in lieu of the debt, and I was to go to him and be his wife.  Maman flew into a rage, screaming at Uncle.  He hit her.  I was hiding in the room and I saw him strike her, tell her that it was all I was good for, all Maman was good for.  As soon as he left the room, Maman gathered a few things together and we fled into the night.  When I woke up, we were in London and Maman was speaking to a stranger in our hotel room.  She was asking him to help us get to America, or Austrailia, anywhere that Uncle couldn't get to us.  As soon as I sat up, he looked over at me and shook his head.  'You will come to my estate, Lisette.  The both of you.  I will explain what Alec wanted to do with your child.  Will you be willing to work as a maid there?' he asked.  'Anything to keep Iona safe,' she replied.  So we moved to the estate that day.  I have told you of m life there, how I was the only one Sherlock could stand to have around him.  Monsiuer Holmes passed away shortly after we came to the estate, but Madame Holmes let us stay.  She was always so very kind to me.  After Sherlock left for University, Mycroft announced I would be going to an all girl's school.  He said we had neglected my education for too long.  It wasn't until I was on my way I realised the school was in France.  Mycroft didn't know about Uncle, or the arrangement Monsieur had made with Maman.  I was there for three months before Uncle found me.  It took me two years to escape from him, and I spent the next five on the move, constantly trying to keep out of his sights.  Finally, Mycroft tracked me down, Madame had been very angry at him when she realised what he had done.  He informed me that Uncle had been arrested and he would never see the light of day again, and he told me the truth of my parentage.  I was moved to Madame's country estate in France until Sherlock's death, when Mycroft asked me to come to London.  He told me Sherlock's friends needed me.  So I came to London and met you.  Please don't ask me what happened in those years with Uncle.  I've moved past it, and I do not want it to poison my life here."  It is the first time she has ever spoken of her life before and after the Holmes estate.  John can easily read between the lines.  He draws her closer, one hnad sliding into her hair.

     "Tell me what you want.  Name it and it is yours," he whispers.  A single tear slides down her face, but she leans closer.

     "You.  Just you," she breathes, and their lips meet once more.

An hour later, in another part of London, Molly Hooper jumps at the sound of her front door opening, and she turns to see Sherlock step inside, soaked to the bone.  She jumps to her feet to meet him as he stares around, almost dazedly.

     "Sherlock!  Are you alright, are you hurt?" she asks, fingers moving to shuck the sodden coat from his form, looking for injuries.  He slowly shakes his head.

     "Iona, she's at Baker Street.  With John," he says, finally focusing on Molly.  The pathologist nods absently, finally assured the man is unharmed.

     "She's been a lifesaver to him.  Dragged him right out of his grief, kept him from falling into his depression again.  Mrs. Hudson is positive that John is head over heels for her, but she seems very guarded when it comes to romance.  For herself anyway.  Let's get you dry.  Did you walk from Baker Street?" she asks, gently tugging him toward her bedroom and the attached bath.  Once they are standing in her bedroom, Sherlock catches her wrist and pulls her close, seemingly oblivious to the fact he is now getting Molly's clothes wet with the contact.

     "John is the only man I have ever met who could be worthy of her.  He would give her the stars," he murmurs, lowering his head to nuzzle at Molly's neck.  She lets out a small squeak at the contact, pushing his head up and peering at his pupils.

     "Sherlock, what did you take?" she asks, voice firm even as her eyes dull once more.  Sherlock sighs and lowers his forhead to Molly's.  Three years has changed him.  He has accepted the sentiment he feels for those in his life and he will never deny those feelings again.  Iona had been right all along.

     "I promise Molly.  I haven't taken anything.  I am simply happy that my sister has finally foud a man willing to give her her stars.  It's something I told her the night her mother died.  She told me she didn't believe she would ever find love, and I told her that when she found the man willing to give her the stars, I would certainly approve of him.  John is the perfect candidate for the role, and tonight Iona has finally realised it for herself," he explains.  Molly's eyes widen as she realises what he is saying.

    "Iona and John are together?!" she exclaims, a smile spreading across her face.  The expression lights her features and Sherlock captures her lips with his.  Molly gasps into his mouth, but she does not pull away.  After a few moments, Sherlock is the one to break the kiss, long enough to catch Molly's gaze.

    "Molly Hooper, I would very much like to take you to bed," he whispers.  If possible, Molly's pupils dilate even more, and she gives a shaky nod.

That night, the rain finally relents.  Three days later, a gentle snowfall covers London.  It is into this snowfall that Sherlock finally comes home.


End file.
